


This Is A Trick

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, M/M, Memory Loss, Non Consensual, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:02:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(<i>I know, I know, hello.</i>)<br/>"It was when he'd read every scrap of information on Mr. Silva he could get his hands on that the nightmares began."</p><p>Q-centric piece about Silva, hallucinations and a slow slide into insanity.<br/>Q//Silva, hints at Q//Bond (at least, it can be read that way if you feel funky).</p><p>not a single warning made flippantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is A Trick

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay holy fuck I don't know either, you guys. this uh. this didn't start out like this.
> 
> poured as many warnings as I could think in there and I still worry I haven't tagged it right. let me know if I need to add more. uh, good lord. I'm so sorry in advance. I'll see myself out of the fandom post haste.
> 
> uhm a good song to listen to is "This Is A Trick" (as that's the title) and also "Prurient", both by ††† (crosses). 
> 
> oh god I'm so sorry in advance

He sees the man only in his nightmares.

He's nothing if not thorough. In his spare time, he sifts through information. There's always more to learn, more to know, and things that weren't brought to light in the past can shine like stars once he's pieced all the parts together. If he isn't tightening new code or parsing through new equipment sketches, he's rifling through files of the cases he's worked on, things he's been involved in, to see if there's any more to be gleaned, if there's anything he's missed.

It was when he'd read every scrap of information on Mr. Silva he could get his hands on that the nightmares began.

At first, they weren't obvious. At first, they were just a series of odd, disturbing and unsettling moments: soft touches on the backs of his thighs, the sensation of breath on his neck, a soft laugh here and there, a smile, feeling trapped against a wall. They wouldn't wake him, being disturbing vignettes slipped into otherwise dead sleep, but they would leave him feeling unsettled upon waking; sometimes, he'd be covered in a cold sweat and would have to take a short walk and a burning hot shower before he calmed enough to get ready for work. 

(Sometimes, the chills wouldn't quite settle enough, and he'd go to work wearing two sweaters, or never take his coat off. Only Bond seems to notice, but he doesn't ever bring it up. It's probably better that way.)

He tries harder to ignore them when they start getting more intense. Vivid, bright, unending dreams soaked in blood or sweat (or both, God, those are the worst) that leave him numb and confused start plaguing his every step; if it's not a nightmare, it's a fucking daydream, slipping in whenever he's not paying enough attention on whatever he's working on. He'll be looking down at a table, intently focusing on the item he's shaping into existence, and lean up to chew his lip for a second too long and the table would be bloody, his fingers slick with it, a whisper in his ear. He'll wake up, tangled in sheets that, seconds before, were chains or ropes or cuffs, binding him, keeping him down while he thrashed against the soft touches on his thighs.

(Eventually he starts losing sleep. Bond noticed that too, and would frown at him if he misspoke, flipping street names around or forgetting someone's name or showing up three minutes late to their rendezvous. He still says nothing, and he's content to let Bond stew in consternation and concern, because he doesn't have the strength or will to speak up about it, and Bond isn't in any place to help, anyways.)

 _They're only dreams, anyways,_ becomes his mantra, and he whispers it to himself every time he wakes up, every time he sees the hint of a shadow in the corner of his eye, every time he can't breathe from the uncomfortable mix of need and disgust that seems to follow him, seems to cling to his skin, seems to colour his every thought. _They're only dreams, anyways,_ he whispers mentally, he mumbles under his breath, he repeats to the mirror, he taps into a word processor. 

_They're only dreams, anyways._

He couldn't pinpoint when it escalates beyond his control. He couldn't point it out on a timeline. He simply knows it does, and it was so sudden and yet so surprising that he couldn't possibly have been ready for it.

One day, he was shutting his eyes against the blood on the walls, and one day, he couldn't just see the blood (it's not just on the wall, it's on him, _where the fuck is it coming from_ ). He could taste the blood (iron, thick and choking on his tongue and down his throat), feel the blood (slick and slippery and oh, oh _God_ , oh _fuck, it's still_ warm-), identify where the blood came from (no, _NO, not like this, it's only supposed to be able to kill people in theory, it was never supposed to be able to kill_ you _-!_ ).

One day, he could hear a soft chuckle, and one day, he couldn't just hear the chuckle (low and quiet, the kind of chuckle a person makes when they're laughing at their own personal joke). He could feel the breath on his neck (feel the man's lips, slick with blood; feel the man's laughter, light and psychotic; feel the man's teeth, nipping at his neck; feel the man's tongue, slicking up his skin), he could see the smile (at first it's just a slight upturn of lips, almost friendly, and then it widens into a grin, a sick flashing of teeth that don't quite look right, little pink tongue peeking out between like the man wants to share the fucking joke), he could jerk against the little touches (the man's fingers on his cheek, on his chin, on his lips; the man's fingers on his neck, his collarbone, the top of his collar; the man undoing his shirt). 

One day, he slips and falls, he scuttles back and flattens himself against the wall, he gasps and jerks away from the touch. One day, he interrupts a meeting, looking up from the little trinket he's working on and falling back, scuttling to the wall. One day, he sees cold eyes and a terrifying smile. One day, he sees concerned eyes and a thin mouth.

"Bond?" he gasps, still tasting blood, still hearing laughter, still feeling the shadow of a touch.

"Q?" the agent returns, his voice quiet and solemn.

"Let's get you back on your feet."

If anyone discusses his apparent meltdown, no one mentions it. Someone quietly mutters to M that Q's starting to fucking lose it, and he's left to put up with the barrage of psychological tests in the wake of his public freak-out. He takes all the tests without hesitation or complaint, and quietly passes them all, though one or two mention his inability to focus at times. They chalk it up to stress. They tell him to take a few days off. They can't tell he's internally screaming, simultaneously refusing help and begging for it, and he takes care to keep it that way. If he can't tell what he needs, how would they? If he can't handle himself, they'll pull him out of Q Branch. They'll take everything he worked so fucking hard for, just because of a few fucking dreams? Absolutely not. 

He'd rather die.

_They're only dreams, anyways._

Vacation is the most boring experience of his life. The days start to blend together, to mix and melt and all become one. 

Day one, nothing happens at all. He ponders his mental stability. He wonders if they were right- if the entire Silva debacle shook him without his realization, and he's got to sleep it off. He muses he'd rather not know if they're right.

Day two, he can't remember how he came to end up on the floor in the kitchen in the middle of the night. When he thinks about it, he vaguely remembers running, panting, pleading, falling. There's blood covering the floor from the tiniest nick on his forehead, complete with its own little throbbing bump. He groans, mops himself up, changes clothes and bandages himself, and stays awake the remainder of the night, afraid he'll go to sleep and never wake up again.

Vaguely, between days two and three, he considers calling or texting or e-mailing Bond, to connect to a familiar spark in the night, to focus his thoughts. To maybe tell Bond what's been happening. He decides against it.

_They're only dreams, anyways._

Day three, he falls asleep from exhaustion in the bath. 

_There's a soft touch on his neck, and it's what wakes him._

_"Tsk tsk tsk," murmurs the man, standing above him. "Don't you slip from me now. No no, not yet. You need to be awake for this, you know. I won't settle for less."_

_God, he's cold. This ice bath has been slowly ticking away at his sanity for the last.. who knows how many hours, and he's wishing the man would just let him die already. He shifts slightly, swallowing air with a dry throat, and lets out a quiet hiss of pain._

_"Tsk tsk tsk. I wonder." The man talks incessantly. The man never fucking shuts up. He wonders if he can even recall the last forty seconds of silence. "What do they teach you? Hmm? What are your protocols?" He can't rightly remember his protocols right now. He had protocols? "Do they teach you to defend yourself? Ohh, no. No, they don't, do they. Tsk tsk. It's almost as if she wants you poor little things snatched away and gobbled up."_

_"Gobbled," he murmurs faintly._

_"And what a tasty snack," the man replies, too-hot tongue on his too-cold earlobe._

He jerks awake again with a gasp in a frigid bath.

_They're just dreams, anyways._

Day four, he's lost track of time. It's just, _his hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles have long turned bone-white,_ in-between everything, _all the fucking and the torture and the pain and pleasure,_ he hasn't really had time to look at a clock, _or up through his sweaty bangs,_ or out a window, _or wipe away the blood,_ or at a calendar, _or ask for the blindfold to be taken away,_ or anything, that's all.

They're just dreams, anyways.

He shakes, freezing and scared, on the couch in his living room. _He's pushed down against the cushions, almost drowned in the fabric, choking on the smell of it, and it swallows his screams as he's fucked over the armrest._ He stands in the kitchen, trying to remember how to eat. _He's got a knife to his throat, a hand on his cock, and a murmuring in his ear that convinces him he'll never leave this place alive._ He stands in the shower for hours at a time, until the water turns cold. _His hands scrabble against the tiles desperately, his chest shoved against their smooth, cold faces, and he is certain his ass is bleeding._

There isn't a spot in the house he feels safe. _There isn't a spot in the house he hasn't been used. The stairs were awkward. The living room left rug burns on his knees, palms and elbows. The kitchen was a plethora of new ideas, and his body shows the result of what the man calls "art" at the hands of his kitchen knife set, the one his mother bought him._ Every room has too many shadows. The entryway beckons but seems too long. The bedroom has too many shadows. _The bathroom frightens him the most, now; he's seen almost every inch of it so closely, bent over and shoved against and pushed down and bound to every surface of it, that he never wants to see it again._

Day eight, James Bond comes for him.

"You're late," the agent's dulcet baritone words insist, but his eyes are an entirely different story. Bond can read the tiredness in his face, see the effect of floating through the world on his body. Bond can read him, and that's dangerous.

"Am I?" he replies quietly, looking away from the face that murmurs so softly but seems to scream at the same time. _You're sick, Q. You need help, Q. You're losing it, Q. Please let me help you._

_You don't understand. They're just dreams._

"Must have lost track of the time," he mumbles, mouth barely forming the words. It's hard to talk. He's been gagged, had fingers shoved through his lips, forgotten what language sounds like from his own throat so often that it's having difficulty coming back. He shuffles from the living room carefully. He wouldn't want to trip. He wouldn't want to hurt himself. _That wasn't his job, anyways. That wasn't his right. That was the man's job, and it was a lesson hard-wired into his brain._

So hard to tell these days, what's real and what isn't. He abandoned all hope of knowing which was which hours (days? weeks? months? years?) ago.

"At least three days, in fact," Bond continues colloquially, like they're chatting over tea. Like there isn't anything wrong. But there isn't anything wrong. Is there? They're only dreams, anyways. Of course there isn't. "Some think you've resigned."

"Absolutely not," he whispers, staring down at the teapot. How did he get here? Did he walk in here? Was he dragged in here? "What was I doing?"

"Some think you need serious help." Bond didn't hear him. Probably for the best. It was a minor slip. A little leak in the crack of his facade. No reason for Bond to know there's a dam about to break. No reason to involve 007.

 _"The last person he took from me is rotting in the ground,"_ reminds a quiet little whisper.

He lifts his head. In the reflection of the glass cabinet doors, he can see Bond perusing the shelves of tea in the corner. Each box has been carefully arranged and aligned in a certain order, and he wonders, staring at the reflection of the back of Bond's head, if that amuses the agent.

 _"Such a shame,"_ tsks the voice. _"You were so pretty, alive. Mmm, mm mm. I'll just have to find someone new."_

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to die. It's kill or be killed. It's a game of survival. The Quartermaster versus the greatest agent MI6 has. The _little boy against the big, strong man. God, look at him. He hasn't let himself slip since last we met. Have you, Mister Bond? Still chasing rats?_

He finds himself slipping a knife out of the block. He finds himself rolling the handle in his palm. He finds himself wondering what it feels like to kill a man. He finds himself feeling sick.

"007?" he asks, voice quiet and light, like there isn't anything wrong. (But there isn't anything wrong. They're just dreams. Remember that.) He steps around the kitchen island counter. He's silent as a ghost.

"Hm?"

He can't do this. He has to do this. What is he doing? What's happening? Isn't he asleep?

"Did you want any tea?"

He's so close now. The knife feels so heavy.

_They're just dreams._

_Remember?_


End file.
